(A tribute written in memory of the late rock legend Ace Frehley, 1951–2025)

With a heavy heart and tears that just won’t stop falling, I find myself writing something I never imagined I would have to write. Ace Frehley — my dear friend, my brother in rock, the Spaceman himself — has left this world. He passed away peacefully surrounded by his family, but the hole he leaves behind is immeasurable. The world has lost not only a founding member of KISS, not only one of the most innovative guitarists to ever walk the Earth, but also a man whose music and energy touched souls across generations.

When I first met Ace, it was at a backstage event in the late ’70s. I remember hearing laughter before I even saw him — that unmistakable, mischievous laugh that could light up a room. Then came the handshake — firm, friendly, and honest. Ace didn’t talk about fame or the glitz of rock stardom. He talked about sound, about how certain guitar tones reminded him of stars colliding, of electricity flowing through the universe. That’s who he was: a man who heard the cosmos in every note.

There was always something otherworldly about him. His stage persona, “The Spaceman,” wasn’t just an act. It was an extension of his being — the embodiment of his creative energy and the strange, beautiful chaos that lived inside him. When Ace picked up a guitar, it was as if the universe stood still for a moment to listen. Every riff, every solo, every squealing note felt alive, like a comet blazing across the dark.

I once asked him during a quiet night after a show, “Ace, where do you find the energy to do this night after night?” He grinned and said, “Steve, the music does it for me. I just follow it wherever it goes.” That was Ace — simple, sincere, and spiritual in his own cosmic way.

His influence on rock music can’t be overstated. From the first crackling chords of “Shock Me” to the timeless swagger of “New York Groove,” Ace defined an era. He wasn’t just a guitarist; he was a storyteller, painting galaxies with distortion and melody. For so many young musicians — myself included — Ace showed us that rock ‘n’ roll could be raw and powerful, yet still have heart and humor. He was never afraid to be different, never afraid to look strange, never afraid to be Ace.

But beyond the stage, beyond the spotlight and the thunder of amplifiers, there was another side of Ace — the quiet friend, the gentle soul. I remember a time when I was going through something personal, something that left me broken and uncertain. Out of nowhere, Ace called. “Hey, man,” he said, “I heard you’re down. Don’t forget — the stars don’t stop shining just because we can’t see them.” That was his wisdom, wrapped in his spacey metaphors. But it meant the world to me.

Hearing of his passing from a cerebral hemorrhage hit me like a lightning bolt. The silence that followed felt heavier than any crowd roar. I sat there for hours, just staring at the photo of us laughing at a festival years ago, his arm around my shoulder, his grin wide and wild. I could almost hear him saying, “Don’t get too sad, man. I’m just taking the next rocket out.”

To Ace’s beloved family — Jeanette, Monique, Charlie, and Nancy — my deepest condolences. To the KISS Army, to the Rock Soldiers who have carried his banner for decades — know that your devotion meant everything to him. He loved his fans with an honest passion. No matter where he was or how tired he felt, he always made time for a handshake, a laugh, or a quick riff just to make someone smile.

Ace was one of the last of a breed — a real rock star with no filters, no pretenses. He lived exactly how he played: loud, unapologetic, and full of fire. He didn’t chase perfection; he chased feeling. And that’s why we loved him. Because Ace reminded us that music wasn’t just notes on a page — it was life itself, unpredictable, messy, and magnificent.

Tonight, I played “New York Groove” one more time. As the first notes hit, I felt something shift. The room seemed to fill with light — soft, silver, like moonlight over a quiet stage. I imagined Ace somewhere out there, laughing, guitar in hand, ready for one last encore among the stars. Maybe he’s jamming with Hendrix now, trading cosmic licks in some heavenly jam session that will never end.

I’ll miss him terribly. The phone calls, the jokes, the crazy stories that always began with “You won’t believe what happened…” and somehow always ended with laughter. There will never be another like Ace Frehley — and maybe that’s how it’s supposed to be. He was one of one, a man whose soul was forever tuned to the key of rock.

Thank you, Ace, for the music, for the madness, for the magic. Thank you for showing us that being different isn’t a curse — it’s a gift. The stars feel dimmer tonight, but I know that somewhere, a new light just began to shine — brighter, wilder, and eternal.

Rest in peace, my brother.

We’ll keep the amps warm until we meet again.

— Steve Perry